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“With, um, lingerie.”
“Oh.Oh.” Bailey giggles. “This doesn’t surprise me, somehow.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love Annie. And I appreciate her … enthusiasm? I’m not sure if that’s the right word.”
“The right word is probably intrusive. Nosy. Obnoxious. Difficult.”
“Funny,” Bailey corrects, then lifts a hand to her mouth as she yawns again. “But what do we do? I can’t sleep in this. Is there anything I can wear?”
I’m not sure what expression is on my face, but Bailey laughs. “Okay, guess that’s a no.”
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, already shrugging off my suit jacket. I drape it over the back of a chair then start unbuttoning myshirt. I freeze on the second button when I realize Bailey is staring at me, unblinking. “What?”
She simply shakes her head.
I make quick work of the buttons, then pull the shirt off, holding it out to Bailey. “Here. It may not be the most comfortable thing to sleep in, what with the buttons and all. But it’s better than wrinkling your dress.”
Bailey takes the shirt, and almost as though it’s an involuntary action, lifts it to her nose. I watch as her lids lower with her deep inhale. “Smells like you,” she murmurs. “This will be perfect. What about you?”
“I didn’t check my bag. I can only imagine. But at least I’ve got this t-shirt and boxers.”
Bailey clears her throat and gets to her feet unsteadily, grabbing the nightstand for support. “I’ll go change. You look in your bag. I can’t wait to hear what she packed for you.” With a smile, she walks to the bathroom, still holding my shirt up to her nose.
I expect something like a whole bag full of condoms and am surprised when I open it to see fabric. Not what I packed, though.
Instead, Annie removed everything I put in the bag earlier, replacing my clothes with what looks like a bunch of towels and one single wearable item: the muumuu I wore on Bailey’s birthday. I’m sure she had no idea the significance of this, but it’s oddly fitting. Especially since Bailey just mentioned it.
Smiling, I remove my t-shirt and slip the muumuu over my head while Bailey’s in the bathroom, then shuck my pants and drape them over my coat on the back of the chair. I’ve just finished when I hear Bailey call me from the bathroom.
I place a palm flat on the closed door. “Are you okay?”
“I … I think I need help.” Bailey opens the door a crack, peeking at me with one brown eye, then laughing when she sees what I’m wearing. “That’s what Annie packed for you?”
“She’s got some sense of humor,” I say drily. “Now, what kind of help do you need?”
Bailey opens the door a little wider. “This gown has a million tiny buttons,” she whispers, her cheeks flaming. “Jenny helped me get dressed this morning, and I didn’t think about getting them undone.”
“No problem,” I tell her, twirling my finger. “Turn around.”
But when she does, pulling her hair out of the way, I see the problem. Not her problem, though I do see how impossible it would be for Bailey to undo the delicate buttons herself. No—the problem I’m aware of ismine.
Because I’m the one who has to undo them.
“Eli?” Bailey tilts her head, looking up at me over one shoulder. “You okay?”
There’s a tickle in my throat, but swallowing doesn’t make it better. I cough. “Yep.”
I’m torn between wanting to curse and wanting to thank Zella for putting so many buttons on the dress. They start just between Bailey’s shoulder blades and drop down just below her waist. So small my big fingers struggle to work them. Especially with the way my mind is warring with itself, making it hard to focus. Under the loose fabric of the muumuu, my lower back starts to sweat.
Bailey angles her head, peeking at me over her shoulder. “You okay there, hockey player? I can’t imagine a few buttons are hard for a guy who can balance on tiny blades while sending a little puck into a net with a stick.”
“You wouldn’t think,” I mutter.
By the fifth button, the top of the dress falls open slightly, revealing what looks to be the top of some kind ofundergarment. Not a bra. A corset, maybe? Or some fancy thing women wear under fancy dresses?
I squeeze my eyes closed and try to move my fingers faster, which only makes me clumsier. And slower. I honestly might do a better job wearing my game-day gloves.
